


Baby It's Cold Outside

by paramount_hat



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Bromance, Cold, Filming, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paramount_hat/pseuds/paramount_hat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times they shared warmth platonically and the one time they didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this is kind of an alternate universe because I decided to ignore the fact that Martin Freeman is happily married. It makes the fact that I'm obviously going to the special hell much easier to bear.

1.  
“Cut!” Paul cried out, stopping Benedict mid sentence.

The director ran over to his two leads while Mark watched from his chair close to the monitor. It was the third time it had happened today, and he was finding it harder and harder to hide his amusement. It wasn't long before Paul was back at his post and filming could resume.

In the parking lot, Benedict’s relaxed demeanour turned into Sherlock’s colder, more guarded exterior, and he started firing deductions at Martin, whose straightened spine and small precise steps were the characteristics of a modern John Watson. Mark never tired of watching the magic happen, and he often found himself trying to find traces of his beloved characters in his two lead actors (well, he said his characters…). Every time, it baffled him how different the actors and characters were.

Beside him, he could sense Paul was tensing up again and one look at the scene being played told him why. Sherlock swiftly bent down to get under the white and blue police tape, and he held it up so John could sneak under it with more ease. It was an almost gentlemanly gesture, and an unscripted one, but Benedict had unconsciously done it twice in a row and Mark had suggested they kept it in. That’s not what was making Paul nervous.

What was making his shoulders tense and his jaw clench was the distance between Benedict and Martin. Well, not exactly. More like the lack of distance between the two men. They weren’t aware they were doing it, but they kept gravitating towards each other, slowly closing the distance until they were mere inches apart. When Benedict wiped a crocodile tear off his cheek, Martin edged closer and their elbows touched; not an awkward bump of bones, but a long slide of material when the expensive coat brushed against the practical one. When they made their dramatic exit, their shoulders were touching even though there was supposed to be a much bigger distance between them.

“Cut!” Paul shouted, and Mark hid his quiet laughter behind one hand.

“I know it’s freezing, but this has to stop. We want people to imagine Sherlock and John are taking off to chase a criminal, not about to find an alley and shag,” Paul added, annoyance seeping through his voice.

“I’m not putting out in this fucking weather,” Martin joked and some of the tension eased off Paul’s shoulders.

A few minutes later, they were filming the same scene again and Mark watched attentively as Benedict and Martin kept a reasonable distance between them. Still, there were little unconscious moves and small twitches in their hands that suggested they had to fight something pulling them together. Like they had magnets in their pockets, Mark thought as he watched Sherlock extend his arm to hand John a business card.

2.  
Martin had got on set earlier than what he was supposed to due to his inability to read a call sheet properly when he was drunk. He wasn’t drunk now, but he had been the night before when he had gone to bed after a night out at the pub with a few people from the cast and crew. They had had a good reason to celebrate; Rupert had gone out with them, something he very rarely did. Speaking of Rupert, he looked well for someone who had had difficulties walking straight the night before, Martin thought as he watched him deep in conversation with Vinette a few metres away.

It had to be the coldest winter in history; despite the fluffy parka he was wearing, Martin felt as if his insides were rapidly turning into ice. He had tried jumping from one foot to the other, but it had only made him queasier, and he had stopped. Instead, he tried distracting himself by looking at the monitor on which he could see Deborah Moore doing a very good job at crying on demand. The more he watched her, the more he was glad he had come in early; his ten-year-old self would have been gobsmacked to know he would watch James Bond’s daughter act one day.

“Impressing, right?” a deep voice asked behind him, and he smiled, but didn’t turn around; the less he moved, the better he felt.

“Pretty fucking impressing,” he replied, and he felt Benedict move a little closer so he too could get a good look at the monitor.

For a while, they watched as the scene was filmed again and again. Apparently, there wasn’t a limit to the amount of tears Deborah could cry, and they watched her in quiet amazement until Martin eventually broke the silence.

“What are you doing here? You’re not due on set until much later.”

“I could say the same to you,” Benedict replied.

“I was drunk when I read the call sheet.”

Benedict laughed and Martin could feel the rumble deep in his own chest. It was probably the hangover speaking, but he felt as though the ice around his organs was melting a little. He had forgotten all about the question he had asked Benedict until he got an answer.

“I went to your room earlier because I wanted to take you out for a full English breakfast and magically cure our hangovers, but you weren’t there so I came looking for you here.”

“Breakfast sounds appalling and amazing at the same time,” he replied, and he heard Benedict chuckle as he moved closer.

They were almost touching now. Martin could feel the heat radiating from Benedict’s body, and he had to concentrate hard not to lean back and close the remaining distance. Instead, he buried his hands deeper into his pockets and continued to watch the monitor. Very soon, he felt something creeping inside his coat pockets, and he jumped in surprise when two gloved hands touched his. Benedict then pulled Martin to him and rested his head on his shoulder, feeling the fur of the hood tickling his cheek.

It was so much warmer now, so comfortable, and Martin leaned back until his head could rest on Benedict’s torso. They continued to watch the crying genius of Deborah Moore, unaware of the frenzy around them; it was as though they were on their own private island. When Benedict’s fingers curled around his, Martin squeezed back and closed his eyes. He could feel the hangover symptoms slowly receding, and he smiled happily.

“Breakfast?” Benedict asked several minutes later.

“Yeah,” Martin replied.

However, neither moved and they remained in that position until they had to change into their costumes.

3.  
Martin was exhausted. He had spent the last hours filming John’s first meeting with Mycroft Holmes, and while acting with Mark had been a delightful experience, he longed for a bit of peace and quiet. It was so cold, even the hotel felt like it had been frozen to the marrow. Upon pushing open the door, Martin didn’t feel the usual relief that came with finding shelter at the end of a long filming day. The lobby felt as cold as it was outside, and he hugged his coat closer to his body as he walked to the lift, but changed his mind at the last minute to take the stairs. A run up the stairs was bound to warm him up, wasn’t it?

Wrong. When he reached his door, he was both freezing and out of breath, the cold air making his lungs ache. He fumbled with his card key, his numb fingers feeling as though they were about to break and when he opened the door, the only thing he wanted was a long hot bath followed by a few hours of mind-numbing telly. And tea. Maybe he’d have a wank, too; it had been that kind of day, and he was ready to do pretty much anything to ease the tension in his body.

For a few seconds, he thought he had entered the wrong room. His was supposed to be empty and cold and the room he had just entered was far from empty, albeit still cold. Benedict was sprawled on the bed, reading something that looked like a script while music blared in his white ear buds. When he heard Martin come in, he looked up and flashed him a wide smile while taking off his ear buds.

“What are you doing here?” Martin asked.

“I brought beer and ordered pizza, but you were supposed to be here sooner. Pizza’s cold and beer…well, beer is probably still cold. Everything is.”

“Doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Your room is on a higher floor. Warm air rises,” Benedict explained.

“How did you even get in?” Martin asked and as an answer, Benedict waggled his eyebrows.

“Oh alright, you can stay here you insufferable bugger. But I’m having a bath and there better be pizza and beer left when I’m done.”

Soon enough, Martin was immersed up to his nose in hot water. His eyes were closed, and he let the water wash away the tension until he felt relaxed and pliant. Only then did he get out of the tub, put on his pyjama and joined Benedict who had got under the covers while Martin had been in the bath. Only a dark mop of curls was visible on the white pillow, and Martin smiled; after almost two months of filming, it still surprised him how incredibly young Benedict could look sometimes.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep! I was promised pizza and beer,” Martin said and Benedict turned to look at him, eyes wide and far from asleep.

“I was keeping the bed warm. Bring the food, we can watch the DVD while we eat.”

“What DVD?” Martin asked as he picked up the pizza box and the six-pack.

“Something I thought you’d like,” Benedict answered as he sat down and scooted over to the right side of the double bed so he and Martin could share the spot he had spent the last twenty minutes warming up.

Benedict held the covers up and Martin slid under them, set down the pizza and beers on the duvet and shifted a little until his back was resting comfortably against the headboard. He tucked the covers under himself so the cold wind wouldn’t reach him, and Benedict did the same on his side. When they were finally ready to eat, they were touching from shoulders to legs and their movements were restricted by their improvised shared straitjacket. Still, they remained in that position, both convinced that moving, even just a little, would mean losing the heat they had trapped so carefully. When Benedict grabbed the remote from somewhere under the covers and pressed play, Martin burst out laughing.

“Antiques Roadshow? I thought you hated that show,” he said.

“I do. But I have some manners, you know. I couldn’t come up here empty handed to leech off your warmth. I brought the good stuff, too; it’s Priceless Antiques Roadshow.”

They remained silent for a little while, munching on their cold pizza slices while Fiona Bruce presented the highlights from the last thirty series. Gradually, Benedict slumped down until his head was resting on Martin’s shoulder. His eyelids were becoming heavier and his breathing shallower; it was obvious he would fall asleep very soon if he remained undisturbed. Martin grabbed Benedict’s empty beer can to set it on the bedside table and poked his side, which made him growl.

“Hey, Ben! Lie down; you’ll hate yourself tomorrow if you fall asleep in that position.”

Benedict grumbled, but after a few pokes he finally shuffled down until he was lying on his side. Martin followed, and for the next minutes they stared at each other, not quite touching but so close nonetheless. When Benedict closed his eyes, Martin smiled at him.

“You know, you don’t need to bring offerings if you want to hang out in my room. You’re always welcome here,” he said softly.

“That’s nice,” Benedict murmured.

Very soon, he was asleep, lulled by the warmth and the low babbling of the television in the background. It wasn’t long before Martin followed; it was nice to fall asleep with someone, to hear someone else’s breathing, to feel the mattress move slightly. Martin’s last coherent thought before he fell asleep too was that he would go to the front desk the next day and request a second key to his room. For Benedict.

4.  
Benedict loved his Sherlock clothes. He loved how the fabric felt against his skin, how smart they made him look, how brilliant he felt when he was wearing them and how well the colours complimented his skin tone. What he didn’t like were costume changes. The trailer where they kept the clothes was one of the coldest places he had ever been in and every costume change always left him cold and shivering for many minutes afterwards.

He had just changed into a grey shirt and a new suit, and was trying to stop his teeth from chattering when he heard the costume supervisor tell her assistant that Martin would be in as soon as he was done filming his single shots. Benedict wasn’t needed on set until Martin would be ready for the next scene, and he didn’t relish the thought of stepping outside just yet. Instead, he came up with an idea.

He took off his Belstaff coat and black jacket, and picked up the shirt Martin was expected to change into. He undid the cuff buttons and put it on over his own shirt; it was too short on his longer arms, but he easily buttoned it and grabbed the oatmeal coloured cable knit jumper. He put it on over the two shirts, already enjoying the weight of the extra clothes and, because an additional layer couldn’t hurt, he also put on the coat.

The warming up process was much shorter than usual, and he mentally thanked Martin’s jumper. Maybe this was something he would do more often, when the occasion would present itself again. He was gasping for a cigarette, but he didn’t want to stink up Martin’s clothes; as amusing as he found Martin when he was enraged, he had no desire to have that rage directed at him. Besides, he was trying to cut back a little. Well, he was thinking about trying to cut back a little. Was the old adage saying it was the thought that counted appropriate when thin cylindrical poison sticks were involved? He decided that yes, it was.

When Martin entered the trailer, his hands cradling a steaming mug of tea, Benedict made no effort to hide the extra clothes under his unbuttoned coat. They chatted for almost three minutes before Martin noticed his costume wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and then another two minutes before he finally spotted the jumper.

“Trying a new style for Sherlock, are they?” he asked and his thin lips twisted upwards.

“They made changes to the script, didn’t you get them? Sherlock and John have a barter system now.”

“I bet they do, what does John get in exchange?”

“The skull. On weekends and alternating holidays.”

“Hmm, that’s a very tempting offer but I’d rather have the jumper back.”

Smiling, Benedict took off his coat, the warm jumper, and the shirt. He was a little reluctant to see them go; it had been surprisingly pleasant to wear them.

“Seriously Ben, what were you doing in my clothes? They don’t even fit!” Martin said as Benedict handed over the warmed up shirt and jumper.

“I was keeping them warm.”

Martin stopped unbuttoning the shirt he was wearing to look up at Benedict. The gesture was…surprisingly nice with a touch of innocence, not unlike that time he had sneaked into his hotel room for the first time. And the second time. And the third time too. They hadn’t talked about those nights, hadn’t stopped to question whether it was weird, and hadn’t planned the occurrences; it was just something that had happened when the timing had been right (and hopefully would happen again, Martin really enjoyed Benedict’s company).

“Thank you,” Martin said, and he put on the shirt and jumper, smiling as he felt the warmth of the clothes on his skin.

5.  
The wind was blowing furiously, and Benedict couldn’t control the trembling of his body anymore. He looked around the set, trying to locate the man who had become his own personal radiator during the previous months of filming. Unfortunately, Martin was nowhere to be found. He sighed and brought the cigarette to his lips to take a shaky puff; cigarettes were one of the things that made waiting around the set bearable. Martin was another one of those things. Benedict had had many co-stars over the years, but none of whom he had been as instantly comfortable with as he was with Martin.

Martin was…special. Usually, Benedict was always aware of how we looked when he spoke with people, he knew what image he was presenting and how to arrange his features to project any expression he wanted. It was his job as an actor to be aware of his body, but it was something he could never really turn off. With Martin, it was easy. When they were together, he forgot about what he looked like, about the good way to laugh without looking ridiculous, how to raise his eyebrows just a bit to seem more seductive… With Martin, he didn’t mind looking silly. With him, his life didn’t seem like an endless photo-shoot.

It was peaceful. Bliss.

How clichéd that Martin chose that moment to find him. Benedict threw the rest of his cigarette to the ground and grabbed Martin’s green parka to pull him into a hug. It was a usual gesture, they had exchanged dozens of hugs before, but the biting wind was unforgiving and they were both reluctant to let go. So they didn’t.

“I’m so fucking freezing, I think my brain has stopped working,” Martin said after a while, and they were the first words either of them had spoken until now.

“Unzip your coat, put your hood on, and take your arms out of your coat sleeves,” Benedict said while doing the same with the white parka he was wearing over the Belstaff coat.

Benedict managed to button their coats together until it looked as though they were standing inside one large uneven sleeping bag. It wasn’t easy, but he succeeded in pulling his hood over Martin’s. They were now completely sheltered from the wind and from the rest of the world. Benedict never wanted to leave; there were three days of filming left and who knew if he would ever find himself in a similar position again. Despite the insane amount of interesting projects awaiting him, he couldn’t help feeling slightly sick. But now wasn’t the time to think about that. Not when Martin was looking up, his face framed by his hood’s light brown fur.

“It’s nice and toasty in here, you’re so good at keeping us warm,” Martin said.

“I hate being cold,” Benedict explained.

“It’s not so bad at the moment.”

“No, indeed it’s not.”

They smiled at each other, and Martin took Benedict’s hands in his. Words were not necessary for the conversation they were having, in fact, words might have made the situation awkward. By looking at each other, they could express how much fun they had had during filming, how much they would miss each other once they stopped spending all their time together on and off set, and how they both hoped the show would be picked up for a second series.

Neither felt like he had moved and still, they were closer. They were breathing the same air and somewhere along the way, their hands had found each other. Martin’s thumb was running slow circles on Benedict’s wrist and suddenly, it was harder to breathe. Had they ever been that close before? Physically, yes, plenty of times. Still, this felt deeper, there were a thousand promises in the air and something new was happening, something pretty amazing and, even if he couldn’t quite say what was going on, they didn’t want it to end. Benedict opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by someone saying his name in the background.

“Where are Benedict and Martin?”

It was Mark. Benedict wished their coats had magical properties, he wished they could disappear and never be found. Just the two of them. He wasn’t asking for much, was he?

“Have you seen Benedict and Martin?”

Benedict tried to will Mark away, but he could hear him getting closer and he knew it was a matter of seconds before they would be discovered. Martin did nothing to make their presence known, and for some reason it filled Benedict with renewed warmth and glee.

“They’re over there, in that big cocoon.”

“Shit,” Martin said, and Benedict laughed as he took his hood off and started unbuttoning their coats. It was over, but just for now. Benedict intended to keep every single one of the silent promises he had made.

+1.  
After the penultimate day of filming, Martin had hoped he and Benedict would return to his room together like they had done several times before. Unfortunately, Benedict had had to remain on set longer than expected and Martin had returned to the hotel alone. Of all the sets he had been in, this one had been surreal, and it had all been Benedict’s fault. The man was out of this world. He wasn’t like anyone Martin had met before and the more time he spent in his presence, the more he craved those alone moments they shared. Martin considered himself too old to try denying his feelings for Benedict were still platonic; it had been a while since he had last felt such a powerful need to be with someone, but he could still recognise the signs.

Benedict felt the same. He had to. Sure, the man was open and affectionate with everyone he felt comfortable with, but somehow what they had seemed different. Benedict used his room like it was his own, he hugged him regularly, he sought his presence, brought him coffee or lunch, ran into his arms when he was cold, and he thought about him often if his small ministrations were anything to go by. Furthermore, something had passed between them the day before while they had been sharing warmth in their coat cocoon. He couldn’t leave the set without being sure, and it had to happen tonight. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he stated typing a text.

 __

Where are you?

 _In my room. You?_

 _In my room. Why aren’t we in the same room?_

 _I’m naked._

 _… Are you sexting me?_

 _I just got out of the shower._

 _Then we definitely should be in the same room._

 _Shut up! Why don’t you come down for once?_

 _I’ll be there in 5. Be naked._

Smiling, Martin hastily put his shoes on and tried to walk at his usual pace as he was making his way to Benedict’s room. He didn’t want to seem too eager, but he felt like he was running out of time. They would film the last scene of the series tomorrow. They would go out for a pint, and everyone would go their own separate way. Benedict would go his own way. Sure, they lived not too far from each other, but, without a reason, would they take the time to see each other again or would they let themselves be buried under their upcoming projects?

He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him when Benedict opened the door. He wasn’t naked, of course, but his pyjama bottom was hanging low on his hips, his faded t-shirt was so old the collar had been stretched enough to reveal well defined collarbones, and his dark curls were dripping onto his thin shoulders. Martin had rarely wanted anything so much in his life. If this was their last night together, he was ready to take a chance, to risk everything. If he was wrong about the nature of their relationship, he would only have to endure one day of awkward filming and, if he was right—oh he couldn’t think about that. Even from his position in the corridor, he could feel the cold air coming from Benedict’s room and he shivered a little.

“Your room is bloody freezing,” Martin said.

“I know, I’ve been telling you for the last months. Why do you think I’m always hanging out in yours?” Benedict replied.

“I thought it was for the pleasure of being in my delightful company.”

“Well yes, there’s a bit of that too,” Benedict said before flashing one of his lopsided smiles that never failed to make Martin feel a few degrees warmer.

Martin entered the room, but Benedict didn’t move and they found themselves standing much closer than was socially acceptable. Neither minded though; they had been closer than this before, but the air between them had never seemed so electrifying. Martin felt as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff. He was more than ready to jump, and all the signs pointed to the fact that he would most likely not jump alone. He got one step closer.

“The urge to kiss you is getting hard to ignore,” he said.

“Then I suggest you stop ignoring it,” Benedict replied, and it gave Martin all the courage he needed to make the first move.

Kissing Benedict was everything Martin had expected it to be, and yet, it still managed to be surprising. His lips were warm and pliant, his tongue inquisitive but not overwhelming, his teeth teasing and his hands…oh his hands! Benedict kissed with his whole body because kissing with his mouth wasn’t enough and, unconsciously, his body demanded Martin did the same.

He did, wholeheartedly.

And for a while, it was more than enough; Martin basked in the novelty of how good it felt to hold Benedict close and how easily they seemed to fit. First kisses were often awkward or uncomfortable (or both), but theirs wasn’t. The part of Martin’s brain that was still functional enough to form coherent thoughts suggested that spending three months learning everything there is to know about each other might have been responsible for that. Especially since Martin had spent a good portion of those past months staring at Benedict’s mouth.

“I think we should have sex,” Benedict said.

“I’m not sure if now is—”

“Why not?” Benedict interrupted. “These last three months have been the longest foreplay I’ve ever participated in, I’ve caught you staring at my arse more times than I can count, we’ve actually slept together several times, and there was absolutely nothing platonic about the way you kissed me.”

“Yes, but—”

“Also, tomorrow is the last day of filming and I’ll be surprised if we both don’t come out of the party drunk. If we wait until then, statistically one of us won’t be able to get it up and, considering I’m halfway there already, I think right now is the perfect time.”

“Trust me, there is nothing I would rather do right now than take you to bed, but it’s fucking freezing and we may not show to our advantage if we get naked,” Martin said, smiling.

Benedict hit him playfully on the shoulder and started laughing in relief and amusement.

“You wanker! Get under the covers and I promise I’ll keep you warm,” Benedict whispered, his breath hot against Martin’s ear.

Martin didn’t need to be told twice. He toed off his shoes and followed Benedict to the bed where they hastily got under the covers. Benedict straddled Martin’s thighs and pulled the crisp white blanket over them both until they were wrapped in a cocoon made of cotton and desire. They kissed again for a long time, slow and unhurried kisses that turned their improvised blanket fort into a bubble of almost palpable heat. They couldn’t feel the cold anymore, in fact, their skins were beginning to glisten with sweat and when Martin started pushing Benedict’s t-shirt up, Benedict got the message and quickly took it off.

Martin ran his hands over the expanse of pale skin. He massaged the surprisingly strong shoulders, teased the sensitive nipples, stroked the ticklish sides, and finally paused on the flat stomach. He hooked his index fingers in the waistband of Benedict’s pyjama bottoms and, while playing with the elastic, he couldn’t help noticing the absence of underwear. He closed his eyes and murmured “Oh fuck yes” when the realisation of what he was about to do fully hit him.

“Fuck yes indeed,” Benedict whispered, and he started undoing Martin’s belt.

While Benedict worked on his trousers, Martin unbuttoned his shirt and wriggled out of it without getting his arms stuck in the sleeves (oh all right, he got stuck, but only for a few seconds). Soon, Benedict managed to open Martin’s trousers, and he slid them and his boxers down his legs and off the bed. He was about to take Martin’s socks off, but was stopped by a protest.

“No! Leave the socks!” Martin said.

“Why?” Benedict asked, his brows furrowed.

“I get cold really fast when I don’t wear socks,” Martin explained.

“You can’t wear socks; it our first time having sex!”

“Of course I can. Look, I am.”

“Oh no, you’re not,” Benedict said as he grabbed Martin’s left foot to take his sock off.

Martin wriggled and tried to free his foot, but Benedict was stronger than he looked and he succeeded in removing not only Martin’s left sock, but his right one too. As an apology, he blew soft streams of warm air on Martin’s feet, which eventually made them laugh. Martin felt his chest swell with affection for his tall co-star, the man who could have anyone in the entire world, and still, the man who had chosen him to be trapped in a blanket cave with.

“Come here,” Martin said and Benedict kicked off his pyjama bottoms before moving back up Martin’s body until he was straddling his groin. Their erect cocks weren’t touching yet, but only a slight shift of hips from either one of them would be enough to—oh yes, that was it. Benedict leaned down and braced himself with one hand beside Martin’s head to get better leverage and he thrusted so, so gently. That brief touch between their previously neglected cocks made them both gasp and, surprisingly, Benedict started laughing uncontrollably.

“What’s got into you?” Martin asked, but it only fuelled Benedict’s laughter.

Martin could feel Benedict’s chest shaking against his, and his dark curls were bouncing slightly, tickling Martin’s cheek in the process. Hearing Benedict was not unlike hearing the rumble of thunder when in a never-ending drought and Martin could never get enough, he craved that laugh like a choking man craves oxygen.

“What’s so funny?” Martin asked again and it took a while, but eventually Benedict calmed enough to speak properly.

“It just hit me… With all the homoeroticism they managed to write in the show, people will think Sherlock and John are doing this on a semi-regular basis.”

“Please don’t say their names, I don’t want to think about these two right now,” Martin said, but he could feel a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson,” Benedict whispered.

“Stop it!”

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson,” he repeated, pitching his voice as low as it could go.

Martin laughed and, in order to shut him up, kissed Benedict fully on the lips. It worked, and very soon their characters were the last things on their minds.

***

Sherlock and John walked away from the crime scene and made plans to visit a Chinese restaurant close to the flat they had agreed to share a few hours before. A camera was facing them to capture their victory walk, and the plan was for them to exchange a conniving smile as soon as they heard Mycroft’s voice in the background.

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

Abruptly falling out of character, Benedict and Martin exchanged a quick glance and burst out laughing. The scene was cut, people returned to their original position, and filming could resume.

The scene crumbled in similar conditions.

This was going to be a long night.


End file.
